Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (26 page)

Now they approached the exit and one of the guards stepped forward as if to bar their way. Maryam's heart faltered as he scanned the group and spoke to them in a language she did not recognise. She huddled down behind the others, for once
pleased to be so small, and prayed that she would not be seen. Then she heard the big door swing open, and realised the guard was ushering them through. She bustled into the centre of the group, keeping her eyes averted as they were herded out.

Just as they were about to go down the steps, the guard cried out and the adults leading the group turned back to him. She could feel the acid taste of bile rising in her throat, and a panicked buzzing filled her head. She was standing next to a small girl; she grabbed her hand, and the child stared up at her with startled eyes. Maryam smiled, trying to reassure her, while the guard at the doors shouted something else. Her knees were now so weak she thought she'd fall, and she dropped down next to the child and stroked her on the head to soothe her, one knee on the ground to steady her legs. Above her, the father figure called back to the guard and laughed, playfully cuffing the blushing teenage boy around the ear.

At last it seemed she was free. But she waited until they were well clear of the doors before she made a move. At the driveway, she peeled away from the group and sprinted along the gravel road, holding tight to the sling to stop the drugs from falling out and to help stabilise her arm. Every footfall jolted the broken bone, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Ahead, the road split into two, one fork winding further down the hill, the other heading up. Which way, which way? She tried to recall the feeling of the truck journey, and made a snap decision that they'd journeyed down.

She threw herself towards the incline now, relieved to see the tip of the fences gradually coming into view, but they looked much further away than she'd imagined. Ahead, a truck drove down towards her, and she swerved off the road and hunkered
behind some bushes until she heard it rattle past. Then up again she flew, her lungs burning and her arm screaming out its discomfort. It was intensely hot, and her mouth filled with stringy phlegm she had to spit to clear. And still the road stretched on and on.

Sweat was pouring into her eyes and her muscles were cramping by the time she finally rounded a corner and saw the camp's administration building against the skyline up ahead. But her relief was short-lived. How on earth would she get back inside the camp without bringing down the wrath of the guards? Her only hope was to hide until an opportunity arrived—a delivery by truck, perhaps, or a disruption while the gates were open so she could sneak back in. This strategy was ridiculously vague: she couldn't guarantee there'd even be an opportunity, never mind succeeding at such a reckless plan. Yet she had no other choice but take that risk.

As she neared the buildings she left the road and made for the rocky ground that led to the far side of the complex that flanked the outer gates. At every sound she checked over her shoulder; every movement in the edges of her vision caused her to flinch and freeze. The tension was exhausting and it seemed an age before she reached the rear of the weathered administration building. She pressed herself flat against its dusty timber boards, then edged around the building's side to confirm what was happening at the gates.

The usual complement of armed men, their guns cocked and glinting in the sun, stood guard, facing off with the protestors inside the fence. Maryam paused again, trying to compose herself. If she blew this now, all chance of saving Lazarus was gone. At least the guards' focus was turned inwards towards
the camp and not out towards the road. It seemed they had not factored in anyone being reckless or crazy enough to sneak
in
rather than out.

She summoned up a picture of Joseph in her mind, using his faith in her as a touchstone to contain her fear. He had believed in her, told her she was brave. She couldn't let him down.

The waiting seemed interminable in the heat, and her body ached from the uphill grind. It felt like a good hour or so passed before she snapped back to attention at the rumble of an approaching truck. She flung herself onto the ground, biting hard on her bottom lip and cursing her own stupidity as she knocked her arm. For several seconds she couldn't see past the red burst of pain behind her eyes. But still she had to keep moving.

She snaked along the baking, rocky ground until she could just make out the truck through the straggly clumps of flax and grasses. It was idling, waiting to enter through the gates. She could see metal vats between the flaps in its canvas siding, and picked it as the water truck delivering hot water for the daily showers. Perhaps this was her lucky day, after all.

With her stomach twisting in a ball of nerves, she made her break, launching herself up off the ground and sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her over the open ground. All she could hear was the thumping of her feet; her eyes were fixed on that small gap in the canvas and everything else became a blur.
Help me, Joseph!
she begged him. Then, miraculously, she had somehow reached the rear of the truck without anyone seeing her. She scrabbled up, hauling herself over the tailgate to fall, shattered and exhausted, onto the tray inside.

The truck shuddered as it began to accelerate forwards, and Maryam quickly wriggled around until she was better hidden by the canvas flaps. She grasped hold of a strut to prevent being jostled too close to the water tanks, which radiated boiling heat from their tarnished sides. She couldn't believe she'd managed to elude the guards! Had she the energy to do so, she'd have danced on the spot.

The vehicle travelled at walking pace, and Maryam fought the urge to check their exact whereabouts until she was certain they were safely through both sets of gates. At last she peered out through a rip in the canvas and saw the ugly metal sidings of the huts. She'd made it! Whoever or whatever had aided her this day, she owed them thanks.

When she felt the truck slowing as it readied for the corner near the ablution blocks, she seized her chance. She edged back over to the opening in the canvas and launched herself out over the tailgate. Her landing was harder than expected, her ankles jarring and her arm complaining as she hit the dusty ground. But the thrill she felt, the elation as she waved to a group of girls who watched her with their mouths agog, pitched her forward, and she broke into a limping jog, on the home stretch now and feeling as if she was about to win the race.

She slowed to catch her breath as she reached the walkway that led directly to her hut. Only now was she suddenly overcome with a scalp-prickling sense of dread. What if Lazarus had succumbed more quickly than Joseph and the whole ghastly
episode at the hospital had been in vain? She tried to push such doubts away, to hold on to the triumph of having made it back here at all, but the fear stayed with her, plodding at her side as she approached the hut.

And it seemed her dread was justified. Ruth sat slumped against the doorway of the hut, her head in her hands, elbows braced against raised knees, blocking any sign of Lazarus from Maryam's field of view. There was such an air of sadness that Maryam baulked.

“Ruthie,” she whispered.

Ruth's face crumpled as she recognised Maryam's voice. She lurched to her feet, and threw herself at Maryam, sobbing as she obstructed entry to the hut and pulled Maryam away.

Ruth couldn't get one rational word out. Her hot tears dripped down Maryam's neck, and the truth hit Maryam like a thunderclap—she was too late. Her knees gave out from under her, and she buckled to the walkway.

It was as though the rest of the world hung in silent suspension around them; as if nothing outside this one painful drawn-out moment was real.
To get so close…
Now Maryam too started to cry, and she clung to Ruth, her whole body shaking as she tried to process this latest cruel stroke of fate.

At last she found the courage to speak. “When?” she asked.

Ruth sniffed loudly and wiped her nose against Maryam's shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, ringed with red. “How could you do that to me? I thought I'd never see you again.”

“I'm sorry,” Maryam murmured. “I never should have left you here to cope alone.” She swallowed, having to force herself to ask again: “When did he…go?”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Lazarus,” she whispered, a burning pressure building in her chest as she said his name. “When did he die?”

Ruth drew back, her hand flying to her mouth. “You mean you…?” She shook her head vigorously. “No, no. He's weaker, but he's still alive.” She towed Maryam towards the doorway now and Maryam saw his prone silhouette on the mattress inside.

“You're certain?” Maryam pressed. Lazarus lay so still, it was impossible to tell if he was alive or dead.

Ruth nodded.

“Oh, thank the Lord!” Maryam started to cry again, all her accumulated tension and worry purging with the hiccuping sobs.

At last she composed herself. “You'll never guess what I've found.” She slipped her hand into the sling and withdrew the box of pills with a grand flourish. “I have the cure.”

“You're joking me?” Ruth's face was lit by a wobbly smile. “How on earth did you manage that?
I
tried last night to get him help, but all they gave me were these things called paracetamol. They helped him for a little while, but by the middle of the night he was worse than ever.”

“Paracetamol's for pain,” Maryam said. “It's not a cure.”

“And this remedy you've brought back really can cure him? That's unbelievable.” She prodded Maryam's chest. “I could kill you, you know. You've no idea what you put me through—you had me scared half to death.”

“I'm sorry! All right? And I promise I'll tell you everything. But first let's show Lazarus these pills.”

“In a minute. First tell me if you're all right. Why are your legs so scratched? And where's the plaster on your arm gone? Did they hurt you?”

“There's plenty of time for that later, Ruthie. Let's attend to Lazarus first.”

She opened the box and pulled out a small silver sheet of foil encasing several rows of pills. How was she supposed to get them out? She pushed and prodded, eventually managing to pop one through the silver foil.

“What do they do?” asked Ruth.

“You have to swallow them, like the paracetamol.”

“All at once?”

“I'm not sure.” She felt stupid now. There were no instructions inside the box that she could see, and guessing might be as dangerous as no medicine at all. Why hadn't she thought of this? She was an impulsive fool. “Maybe Aanjay will know,” she said.

“Do you think she can be trusted?”

“Absolutely.” She thought of the Buddha in Aanjay's room, and how she'd spoken of compassion and love. She'd understand.

“Then shall I go find her?” Ruth offered. “I need the air.”

“Yes please. You go, and I'll tell Lazarus I'm here.”

The smell of sweat and stale breath hit her as soon as she entered the hut. She understood now why Ruth was eager to take a break: the air was so steeped with the stench of plague she felt it settle in her pores.

She leaned over Lazarus and watched his pulse fluttering fast and pronounced beneath the inflamed rash that ringed his neck. There was still so much bruising on his face from the beating it was hard to tell if the rash had spread, but so little of his own white skin was visible she knew it could not be good. The plague was like a jungle creeper, slowly strangling and consuming him, just as it had poor Joseph. A day or so longer at most, she figured, and she really would have been too late.

She knelt down beside him now, noting the full cup of water and the empty soup bowl on the floor beside his mat.
Bless Ruth for looking after him so well.
She gently shook him by the shoulder, shocked by how thin he was: his bones were clearly defined beneath his discoloured skin. He reminded her so much of Joseph that she had to glance away before she looked again.

“Lazarus,” she called, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I'm back.” She watched his eyeballs slide beneath their fragile lids, but he didn't rouse. “Lazarus,” she tried again, louder this time. “Wake up! I have the cure!”

His eyes fluttered open but it seemed an age before they focused on her own. He tried to smile but his lips were so cracked and dry he had to moisten them before they'd move. “You came.”

She was taken aback by how much his smile pleased her, and covered her awkwardness by rattling the box before his face. “I told you I would find the cure.” She couldn't help grinning, the enormity of what she'd risked only now really starting to sink in. “You need to get started on these right away.”

He rolled over, painfully slowly, and reached for the cup. His hand was shaking as he picked it up, and she wrapped her own over the top of his to steady it so he could drink. “Ah, that's good.” He sank back onto the mat, not for a moment taking his eyes off her face. “Tell me what happened.” He paused to regain his breath. “How you are.”

She laughed. “Ruth will not forgive me if I tell you first! I'll reveal everything once she returns and you've taken these.”

His eyes flicked to her arm. “The cast?” It was obvious that speaking took a heavy toll. Between each short sentence he had to gasp for air.

“It's fine,” she said. She was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps thundering down the walkway, and hadn't even time to get up from where she knelt when Charlie, the guard, burst in.

“What the hell is going on? They're looking for you over at the hospital!” His gaze picked up Lazarus beyond. “And what the crap's
he
doing here?”

Maryam slipped the box of pills under Lazarus's blanket and sprang to her feet. “He's dying,” she said bluntly, hating to say it in front of Lazarus but needing Charlie to understand that hers was no ordinary transgression.

“How'd you get back in?” His eyes burned with fury.

“He needed my help,” Maryam said, and she raised her chin defiantly. “How did you know that I'd be here?”

He snorted. “I didn't. I was coming to ask your friend Ruth what was going on. My wife, Veramina, works down at the hospital. She's says you did a runner when you heard they were going to operate on your arm.”

“She's your wife?” Something in her brain went
click
. No wonder Charlie was so different from the rest of the guards. He loved someone with brown skin.

“Yeah.” His face softened for a moment. “But why on earth risk an amputation and hightail it back to this shit hole? If you were going to run, you should've had the op, then run the hell away from here.”

“An amputation?” Lazarus broke in.

“Nothing,” she hissed back over her shoulder. She met Charlie's uncomprehending gaze. “Don't you see? I couldn't leave him here to die.”

“When Vera told me about your breakdown yesterday, I
didn't believe it, but now you're starting to convince me…
No one
breaks back into here, you crazy kid—except the odd crusading reporter from time to time. You're bloody lucky I'm the only one, so far, who's figured out the girl who had the meltdown yesterday was
you.
” He sighed, looking more tired than angry now. He jerked his head at Lazarus. “What the hell did you think you could do for him? Lay on your hands?” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Listen, missy, I know you think you're helping, but if someone in
my
position can't convince the boss to get proper treatment for you lot, what makes you think
you
can somehow save his life?”

Maryam folded her arms across her chest, feeling like a chastised child. If only she could make him
understand
…She sized him up, from his weary face down to his scuffed black boots. If she took him into her confidence—somehow managed to move his heart—then maybe he could find out how to use the pills. But if he chose instead to uphold the law of the camp, he'd confiscate the pills, punish her for stealing and leave Lazarus to die. Was it worth this risk?

Now Ruth appeared in the doorway. “It's all right,” Maryam reassured her. But she caught Ruth's gaze and slid her eyes to Charlie to warn her to be guarded. “Did you have any luck?”

Ruth shook her head. “No help.”

Aanjay refused? Why would she do that? Had she been brainwashed by the white men too?
Behind her, Lazarus succumbed to a fit of coughing, a terrible barking sound that resounded off the metal walls. Maryam shook aside her disappointment and knelt beside him. There was little she could do but offer him another sip of water once the final spasm had passed. When she'd helped Lazarus to settle comfortably again, she looked up at Charlie,
whose brow was creased with concern. With Aanjay refusing to help, she'd have to make use of his good heart and take the risk of trusting him. “Can we speak outside?” she said.

Charlie nodded, glancing back at Lazarus as he left. “Take it easy, matey. I never saw you here, you understand?”

“Thanks,” Lazarus rasped.

Outside the hut, Maryam shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to decide how best to confess. “Lazarus has Te Matee Iai,” she started. “Aanjay says you know it as Sumber Kem—” She racked her brain, trying to recall the word.

“Sumber Kemusnahan,” Charlie prompted. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that makes sense.”

She blurted out her story now: how Joseph had already died, how Lazarus had tried to end his life when he learnt the plague had struck him too. Charlie didn't interrupt, merely raised an eyebrow when she told him how she'd concocted her desperate plan. “I can't let him die, not now I know there's a cure.” She told him of the hospital, of Veramina's kindness, and how she stole the pills.

“You're gutsy and inventive, I'll give you that…But do you understand the consequences if they find out you stole the drugs?”

She didn't want to think of this right now, it scared her so. “Wouldn't you have done the same?”

Charlie gazed off into the distance for a moment, as though he searched for the answer to her question there. “What if I was to assure you that I'll get him help, if you agree to go back to the hospital and let them fix your arm?”